


A Surprise Visit

by sonyo_writes



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Also fluff, Fluff, I will add more tags as I go, I'm still writing this, IwaKage - Freeform, M/M, Slice of Life, Slow Build, iwaizumi hajime swears a lot, lots of character alone time, some things might be ooc but i have so many hcs, there is a lot of description, this is rated m mostly bc language and perhaps some smooching later on, visiting Sendai
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 12:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25969858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonyo_writes/pseuds/sonyo_writes
Summary: Iwaizumi is planning to surprise his mother with a visit to Sendai after a few years. He wasn't expecting to get a surprise too.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Kageyama Tobio
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> hey hey hey! i hope u are all doing well, and if not, i hope this can cheer u up!  
> this is an iwakage fic that i have had ideas for since,, idk two weeks ago? (there is not enough iwakage content and i would like to fix that.) i am still in the process of writing it. i'm not sure how often updates will be, probably at least once a week, if not more than that. university is starting soon and i'd like to get some content out before i don't have time for it :(  
> i truly hope you enjoy this, it's a pretty big step for me as i've never written something multi-chaptered and finished it.  
> also. writing style who? defenestrated. sincerest apologies from yours truly.  
> please let me know if u have any feedback, i THRIVE off comments and kudos. it really helps me get better and figure out my mess of a writing style, as well as what to keep and what to change.
> 
> be safe, and take care love!  
> -sonyo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tired Iwaizumi makes his way from Tokyo to Sendai. It's been a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!!!  
> thank u for taking the time to give this a read, i really do appreciate it :)  
> this is a slow build, and there is much introspection and thinking and terrible narration. i hope you enjoy it. iwa does not receive his surprise right away, i wouldn't be working out my slow build muscles if i did that! but i do hope i can make this good enough for you to sit through and go on this funky little journey with me!
> 
> thank you again! big love dudes :)  
> -sonyo

Iwaizumi had not been in Sendai for a long time. When he left for university, he would visit once a year to see his mother and pay his respects to his long-dead goldfish, Gojira. So, now 27 and dearly missing his mother (and his ritual of visiting Gojira), he readied himself to take a bus from his barren Tokyo apartment with the intent of surprising her.

It was 10:30pm on a Saturday, and Iwaizumi had packed a duffel bag with an ample supply of sweatpants, hoodies, crew-necked shirts, and underwear.

“Shit.” He forgot about toiletries.

He hurriedly stuffed his small, chibi-godzilla covered toiletry bag (a gift from Crappykawa) until it could barely zip up, having stocked it with a toothbrush, deodorant, and travel-sized toothpaste. Oh, and a bar of soap. It was taken from a hotel in Osaka during a terribly long layover. It smelled like raspberries and brown sugar. Iwaizumi’s lips quirked at the memory.

He bent down and unzipped his duffel bag to cram in his toiletries, cursing as his head hit the bathroom counter on his way back up.

After pulling a dark blue sweatshirt over his head and stumbling into a pair of old sweatpants, he frowned at his mirror. “Fucking stupid ass hair, pick a direction, damn it,” he whisper-yelled at his reflection. He considered shaving his head. However, it was a little late for a trip to the barber, so he went to his closet and pulled a toque over his head until it touched his eyebrows.

“That’s fine.” The inflection in his second word hinted otherwise.

He checked the time on his phone. 10:41 flashed at him in brilliant white, making him blink, hard. He hit the power button again, sat on the edge of his bed, and began to mumble. “Okay, okay, meeting time is 11pm, it takes 15 minutes to walk to the bus depot, so I should go… Now?” He closed his eyes in thought. “Yes. Okay. I’m going.”

He tiptoed to his fridge, wincing when he opened it and the LED lights turned on, leaving him blindly reaching for his container of plain, nori-wrapped onigiri. When the feeling of cool plastic swarmed his fingertips, he yanked the container from its shelf and tucked it under his arm, bumping the fridge door shut with his shoulder.

Picking up his duffel bag, Iwaizumi made his way to the front door and fished for his apartment key in the wooden bowl he kept by the door. As his fingers danced around coins and paperclips, he slipped on his sneakers, black-and-white checkered canvas with fraying edges. When his hand finally closed around his key, he opened the door, grimaced at the squeak of the hinges, gave his apartment a glance to ensure his windows were shut, and locked the door behind him as quietly as possible.

The next 15 minutes were spent lightly padding down the stairs from the second floor of his building, inhaling cold winter air that made his nose run and his fists curl in his pockets, and wishing he had properly stretched after the leg workout he did that morning.

The lights of the bus depot were a near-heavenly sight, and Iwaizumi’s legs worked harder than they liked to get him to the front desk. He entered the small building and saw a clock tick to 10:59pm.

A man of about 50 years stared at the sniffling hulk before him for a few seconds before speaking. “Name, please?”

Iwaizumi replied quickly, thinking the old man’s voice sounded like soft chalk on a blackboard. He liked it. A welcome dose of familiarity. He also liked the dark green polo the man wore. It looked lived in. _Familiar_ , he thought. A small smile touched his lips.

The man slid a cardstock ticket with a perforation for a stub on the left, raising his head to meet Iwaizumi’s eyes. “Have a good night, Iwaizumi-san. I hope your journey goes well.”

The young man nodded and quietly thanked him, taking the ticket and checking his seat number as he went back outside, making his way to the bus. A woman tossed his duffel bag into the bus’s cargo bay, and a man folded his ticket and tore the stub off.

As Iwaizumi walked down the aisle of the bus, he noticed no one was in the seat next to his. Actually, only a few of the seats on the bus were filled. There was a couple in the front, a tired-looking 20-something that reminded Iwaizumi of himself, and an old woman whose wispy white hair clung with the static of her headrest. Truly, who else would take a highway bus to Sendai on the last Saturday of November?

He sat down and buckled his seat belt. After he made himself comfortable, he squeezed a few drops of sanitizer onto his hands, rubbed the gel around his hands and between his fingers, and quietly opened his container of onigiri.

Enjoying the familiar salty flavour, he wondered what was waiting for him in Sendai. Who was waiting. His mother, of course. And Gojira’s dead, little fish body in his backyard. He would visit Oikawa’s mother too, and maybe even see how Seijoh was doing. The term wasn’t over for another month, so he might get to sit in on a couple of practices. Perhaps he could take his old coaches, Irihata-sensei and Mizoguchi-sensei, out for a drink. Would that be weird? No, 27 is old enough to drink with a former coach. Right?

Two onigiri later, with two left in the now-closed container, the bus began to move and pulled Iwaizumi from his musings. He sighed contentedly, leaned his head back into the weirdly coloured headrest, and closed his eyes. The vibrations of the bus engine lulled him to sleep.

Six hours later, at 5am, he opened his eyes to the bus depot in Sendai, illuminated by neon signage instead of the sun. It was snowing.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iwaizumi takes his usual route home from the bus depot, walking by past fixtures of his life and running from an aggressive bird. Okay, the bird isn't part of the usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!!  
> i know this is late by a couple days and i am terribly sorry, so have a slightly longer chapter as an apology?? sorry :( university starts in four days, and i am absolutely terrified, so i'm taking a lot of solace in this work.  
> i have a very strong hc that iwa is kind of clumsy and nervous outside of sports and stuff he's deeply engaged in. he also thinks when he's alone. a lot. i honestly don't think that's super duper far from how he is, it's just not a part we get to see a lot, especially in the anime.  
> i did tag this slow build, there is only iwa/iwa interaction in this chapter. he will talk to another person soon, i promise!  
> i get there's not much to comment on right now, but i just want to say thank you to those of you who still say something. thank you!! ^-^ i truly appreciate your patience and taking time to read this fic.
> 
> format note:  
> WHEN THIS HAPPENS  
> **  
> text blah blah  
> **  
> this is a memory/flashback! i hope it's clear and the formatting isn't ugly, but please let me know if you don't like it. i wasn't sure if i wanted all of it to be italicized or not, i wasn't a fan of the readability when it was, so i just used the asterisks to signify. i hope that's alright!
> 
> i hope you enjoy! so so much love - 3-  
> -sonyo

As Iwaizumi took his bag from under the bus, he savoured the crunch of fresh snow beneath his feet — or was it a squeak? The way his old sneakers sank into the sparkling white surface, settling slowly, only to be uprooted and forced into new territory with every step, made him question his choice in descriptive language. His dark brows knit together as he weighed his options.

On one hand, or foot, there was the thin, chilled top layer of crystallized ice, giving reason to the parts of his mind voting for crunch. Then, there was the soft cushion of slightly wet snow beneath. It made him feel like he was stepping on a mattress topper, one that was trying to mask the concrete beneath and doing a terrible job. The release of his footing favoured squeak, he supposed.

Iwaizumi’s train of thought was interrupted by his shoulder clipping a pole, jolting him to his present, 5:07am reality. He cursed a little louder than he intended. A white-fronted goose squawked at him before thrashing its wings and flying away. He felt an absence beneath his arm.

“Did I drop my onigiri?” He glanced at the ground. “I dropped my onigiri. Shit.”

At this point, the trainer didn’t know if his ears were red from embarrassment or the cold.

He picked up his half-full container, stashed it in his duffel bag, and kept walking, his legs dragging him along a well-traveled route that took him through his upbringing. First stop: Kitagawa Daiichi.

Iwaizumi sauntered over to the fence that surrounded the school, gravitating towards the soccer field where he spent much of his time outside. He let his thoughts linger on the fights he had with Oikawa during the three years — he wished he could tell his younger self:  _ no, the dumbass does not change, not in high school and not after that _ — and eventually found himself between two young setters in his mind’s eye, one hand wrapped around his childhood friend’s wrist. His form slumped over the fence, hearing his already-harsh voice yelling for Oikawa to calm down. Dumbass.

He allowed himself a little while longer to reminisce. Much came to mind.

The first time Oikawa was confessed to, and the second and third and fourth, after which he decided to stop keeping count. The day he realized he had a crush on his best friend. Two years later, when he realized he was finally over it. Watching Kageyama in his first practice with the team. Witnessing his sets reach terrifying levels of accuracy. Seeing a spark of the fervor Oikawa had, and not knowing whether to be afraid or in awe of the small, blueberry-headed boy.

A snowflake flew up Iwaizumi’s nose as he inhaled deeply. He sneezed into the sleeve of his sweatshirt, startling another goose. The difference, this time, was that the goose decided to hunt him. Iwaizumi did his best to stifle his fear, but he was not particularly successful. His first yelp turned into a stream of curses and pointless questions.  _ The goose won’t tell you why it’s targeting you, you fucking idiot, just keep running _ , and he did as he was told.

Three blocks later, his brain started working again.  _ It’s very convenient _ , he thought,  _ that the goose stopped chasing me when it did _ .

The man now stood in front of a playground swing set, eyeing the snow that had piled up on the red plastic seat. A much younger version of himself would have licked it — the snow, not the seat. The current version of himself cringed, dusting the snow off instead. He sat on the weathered seat and manoeuvred his duffel bag straps to turn the luggage into a backpack. He pushed his feet into the strange mix of gravel and snow and fell into a familiar rhythm of back and forth.

This was where Oikawa Tōru came into his life, asking a small Iwaizumi if he believed in aliens.

Iwaizumi stuck his tongue out, catching snowflakes on his taste buds and letting them melt and collect until he was pretty sure his saliva had turned to ice. He relished the sweet morning chill and the feeling of cold metal on his palms. Crystals of ice landed on his eyelids and caught in his lashes, not heavy but present.

A leisurely blossom of burnt orange made his eyelids twitch, and he cracked them open, releasing a breath at the sun rising before him.

**

“It’s almost 6:30, Hajime! Come, we can’t miss it!” Her excitement had always been infectious. Hajime was on the verge of running in the hall before his mother put her hands on his small shoulders to slow him down.

He put on his outdoor slippers, taking no notice of how his mother chose to go outside without them. He followed her closely, going out the door and letting her close it behind him. The boy glanced at the ground, seeing his mother’s bare feet embedded in white fluff. Mouth agape, he spoke. “Eh?! You aren’t wearing shoes! You’ll get cold!”

“Don’t worry, Hajime. I do this quite often, you know,” she said, patting her shoulders as she went down into a wide squat.

“Really?” Hajime gave her an odd look before walking around to her back, hoisting himself up by stepping on her thigh and bringing his other leg over her shoulder. The mother and son adjusted themselves for a minute, and Hajime’s feet curled around her back, finding purchase beneath her arms. “I’m not that little anymore, Okaa-san. Put me down when you need to!”

The woman laughed in response, a warm, familiar sound. She smiled as she turned to face the east. “Watch, Hajime.”

So he did. He watched dark blue turn to green, umber to orange, red to pink, and suddenly everything he saw was covered in tones of honey. By now, his slippers had fallen from his feet, but he was too captivated to notice the snowflakes clinging to his hair and brows, melting on his skin.

He leaned down so his chin rested on his mother’s dark hair, feeling her speak before he heard her.

“Every day, in the early morning, the sun thinks of you, and it remembers it must keep you warm and safe and bright, and it rises for you.” She breathed. “You and the sun share your beginnings. Think, Hajime, the sun rises for you!” Her voice was now an excited whisper. “Don’t forget, okay? Okaa-san wants you to remember this, always. Can you do that?”

He whispered an affirmation in her ear, kissing her temple with his now cold lips. He didn’t really get it, what four-year-old would? But if it was important to Okaa-san, it was important to him.

The pair watched the sun rise a little longer, until it had made a temporary home some degrees above the horizon. When he finally came down from his mother’s shoulders, Hajime hugged his mother tight, curling his small toes in the snow. They shuffled back inside, Hajime leading their conga line of two, and lay on the brown upholstered couch, the little boy snuggling into his mother’s side underneath a thin fleece blanket.

The background noise of the television sang the two to sleep.

**

Iwaizumi knew the time as he watched the sun rise. In the winter, near the end of November, it rose for him at about 6:30 in the morning, like that day he first watched the sunrise with his mother.

A small smile stretched his lips.

However, in his minutes lost in thought, he had somehow lost all ability to balance and fell from the swing seat.

The man began to mumble in the hazy morning light. “My ass is cold.” He paused. “My ass is cold as fuck.”

As he stood, he brushed the snow from his sweatpants. He turned to face the swing set, offering a bow and quiet thanks before recalculating his route down memory lane.

“Damn goose.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iwaizumi nears home, and his trip down memory lane comes to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey darling people!  
> i apologize for how short this chapter is, and how little happens. my first year of university starts tomorrow and i am so, so busy! i wanted to put at least something small up. i am also going to upload a very bad comfort ennotana one shot tonight that i wrote because i was having a hard time moving this chapter along, maybe check it out?  
> feel free to connect w me on twitter or tumblr! links are in my profile :)  
> i hope you're well. thank you so much for your time and patience.
> 
> i'm blowing u kisses rn :* like so many kisses bro hehe  
> -sonyo

It had stopped snowing now, but a chill still permeated the dark blue sweatshirt Iwaizumi chose as the day’s armour.

People had started coming out of their houses now. Iwaizumi received a few odd looks,  _ probably because I look like I’ve never seen winter before _ , and crossed his arms in defense. It wasn’t that really that bad. His sweatpants were warm, his toque kept his spiky hair from view, and the sweatshirt did a pretty good job of keeping him not naked.

As he walked, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he kicked up small crests of snow. Some of them had the nerve to look like Oikawa’s stupid ‘windswept’ hair, that when actually swept by the wind looked like shit.

Iwaizumi spent a long time watching little puffs of snowflakes burst from his steps. So long, in fact, that he had traversed the distance from the old park to Aoba Johsai.

“Huh.” He buried his hands deeper into his pockets.

White dust had gathered on the rooftop, as well as the long awning of corrugated sheet metal that guarded the main entrance, crisp edges set ablaze by the sparkling of the heavy winter sun. Frost licked at the thin support poles, and the man had the urge to lick them too. He was pretty sure that was Oikawa’s influence on him talking.

The week before his first year began was spent agonizing over the horrendous pants he knew he would wear every day for the rest of his foreseeable future.  _ Okay, three years, same thing _ .

Really though, he hated the uniform pants. He could stomach the nasty maroon tie, even the somehow-off-coloured beige sweater, but the pants? That was where he drew the line. His distaste for the article had first made itself known when Oikawa said he liked them. Young Oikawa did  _ not _ have a good fashion sense.

An image of his friend in plaid shorts popped into Iwaizumi’s head. He had been nibbling on his leftover onigiri, but assaulted and frankly offended by the thought, he gagged.

Second year was where the fun really started. By then, the Seijoh four were tightly knit. Iwaizumi, Oikawa, Matsukawa ( _ arguably the better kawa _ ), and Hanamaki went for ramen after school on test days, dragged each other to Uniqlo just to cackle at whatever Oikawa picked, and frequented the 100-yen store, rarely finding anything of interest. The boys took turns bugging Hanamaki about the way his hands always wound up in his shorts, who always had a perverted retort that was so terribly fitting.

Iwaizumi’s head flooded with tangible memories. The near-automatic way the four decided on jersey numbers, the  _ tmp tmp _ of shoes that struck linoleum floors, the sweat that ran down his face and back in rivulets, the warm sting of Molten volleyball after volleyball against his palm, the slight scratch of his knee pads on his skin, and he  _ swore _ he was back in his last year of high school, guidance appointments and shrine visits just around the corner, and the shit-eating grins on his friends’ faces were bright enough to blind him.

He blinked.

A thick swallow and exhale preceded the incline of his head. Turning on the balls of his feet, Iwaizumi felt the snow squeak under his feet and absentmindedly checked the time on his phone. He seemed to have underestimated just how nostalgic he could get.  _ A few years will do that to you _ . Slowly releasing his now iron grip on the empty onigiri container, he unzipped his duffel bag to tuck it inside.

Iwaizumi checked the time on his phone, squinting at the screen as the brightness slowly adjusted. It was nearing 8:30 that Sunday morning. By the time he walked to his childhood home, his mother would be awake. Maybe watering the plants in the kitchen or reading a newspaper.

_ Was there a florist on the way back? _ The man scratched through the fabric of his toque, itching the top of his head.


End file.
